


don't be scared

by thir13enth



Series: shallura week 2017 [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, Shallura Week 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 12:15:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11402226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thir13enth/pseuds/thir13enth
Summary: there's still time.—shallura. au. (for shalluraweek 2017, day two: hands; names.)





	don't be scared

**Author's Note:**

> largely inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XAGnTwT9bDE)

Sometimes, he wishes days like this could last forever.

The radiant day shining down on them, smothering them in heat that not even his thin t-shirt could alleviate; the roar of the tides curling into gentle waves to tickle their toes; the soft sand shores that drag their strides; the overhanging smell of salt on their sun-kissed skin; the occasional humid breeze that never seemed to find a direction.

In fact, despite the itchy grainy feel of ever persistent sand over his calves, the breathtaking beauty of a corner between land, sky, and water never fails to relieve him.

And hand-in-hand with her, he finds no reason to complain.

Year after year, they come to the beach, because the sunsets here last the longest: a molten yellow dollop of sun sinking into the ocean, white from the reflected light, with ribbons of blush red, fire orange, and nebula pink stretching out as far into the horizon as the eye could see.

He looks at her again —the way her white flowy gown drapes wide and comfortable over her sharp collarbones and broad shoulders, every now and then teasing him with the curve of her hips; the way her large floppy straw hat hides all but the bottom half of her smile from the sun — and squeezes her hand in his.

He sees her grin widen, and she looks up at him, the brim of her hat throwing up a small breeze onto his face. “What are you laughing about?”

“I’m not laughing,” he denies, but with the goofiest smile.

She rolls her eyes, entwining her fingers further into his. Then she pulls him in by the arm and lifts onto her toes to offer him a kiss. Her lips are dry and a little scratched from being outside too long, and he withdraws suddenly to lick them.

“Ew! Hey!” she exclaims, retreating and wiping her mouth as he cackles. “Don’t do that!”

“Your lips needed a bit of moisturizing,” he explains, as his laughter falls into a smile. He scoops her back into both of his arms, holding her close to him.

“Well there’s chapstick for that,” she replies, pushing away from him with her hands against his chest. “I don’t need your saliva all over me.”

“How about just a kiss then?” he murmurs, before leaning in to do just so.

“Hmm… fine,” she hums between their lips, letting the distance close.

But his head is too large to fit under the brim of her hat, and his forehead pushes the hat off her head and into the gust.

“Ah!” She gasps, reaching out for it, but the wind carries the article of clothing further than her arm can stretch and faster than she can pounce forward.

They watch her hat fly off, dipping and rising unpredictably as it goes with the flow.

“Now look at what you did,” she pouts, frowning. “My hair is going to get all over the place.”

He laughs softly, using both his hands to tuck her hair behind her ears. His fingers stay at the ends of the silver curls, twirling the silver strands around his fingers. “I like it better this way,” he tells her.

“It’s messier,” she insists.

He shrugs, wordlessly plucking a bit of seaweed from her hair.

She turns around in his arms to face the ocean, leaning back against him and holding his arms around her waist. She looks up at the sky for a long moment, and then takes a deep inhale and exhale.

He feels every catch of her breath against his chest.

“It’s never the same is it?” she remarks, tilting her head up at him. “The sunset.”

He presses a kiss on her forehead, his eyes rising to look up at the magenta sky and lavender clouds.

He traces the gradients with a practiced gaze. He knows all too well the shape of every cloud and the swirl of every color in the sky by now. The feathery cloud puffs that extend up like smoke from a fire, the flat straight-lined clouds that make the sky look like wrinkled satin.

He looks to the far right corner of the sky and indeed, a flock of seagulls glide through his sight, just as he expected.

“Nope,” he slowly replies.

Even more cautiously, and without turning his head, he looks to the furthest left edge of the horizon, where he can just barely make out two faint straight silver lines in the sky, almost overlapping except for a very narrow space. He stares at the acute angle — and then suddenly right before his eyes, the lines snap closer.

Three minutes.

He suddenly feels water catch on the bottom of his rolled up trousers, feels the hem of her gown stick to his ankles. He looks down, and she pulls him back away from the ocean with her.

“Come on,” she says, gesturing to their beach towels and umbrella just down the shore. “Don’t want to get our clothes wet.”

He follows along obligingly, shaking the wet sand from his feet as he walks into the shore behind her. He keeps her hand tightly in his, turning his head again to check the sky momentarily.

She feels the slow of his step and stops. “What are you looking at?” she asks him, eyes intense on him like she’s read the truth off his face.

“Nothing,” he says, shifting his gaze from the sky to her.

He leans in to kiss her, but she avoids his kiss. She doesn’t release him from her sight. “You’re looking at the clock, aren’t you?”

He holds his breath. She’s always been able to see through his lies.

She still can — even as a program.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, looking down at their hands.

“Hey,” she says, stepping closer to him. She brings both her hands into his. “Don’t worry. Just focus on my hands in yours, your hands in mind.”

He nods. He breathes out painstakingly slow, like he can slow time if he slows his heart.

Sometimes, he wishes days like this could last forever.

He closes his eyes.

“Okay,” he replies.

He can hold the moment for as long as he can keep her hands in his, his hands in hers.

Then the warmth from the sun fades and the sound of the ocean becomes still air. The summer breeze falls apart and the blue sky collapses. The sand disappears from between his toes.

He doesn’t let go.

.

.

“Mr. Shirogane?”

He doesn’t reply until he’s ready. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry but the sun has set. Your time is up.”

He opens his eyes. He’s standing in a blank empty white room again, and he’s back in the present he finds so hard to escape on days like these.

On this day, really.

“I know,” he says.

.

.

The receptionist knows him by his heavy footsteps and by the time of the year. She doesn’t need to look up to greet him.

“Same thing as always?” she asks. She types a couple of sentences onto the desk computer, makes a couple of clicks before meeting his eyes. “Right?”

It takes him a moment. “Yes,” he croaks. His throat already aches.

“I imported all the exact settings from last time.”

“That’s perfect.”

“And no changes to the current program, right?”

He shakes his head.

The receptionist nods her head slowly, resuming her typing and clicking. She waits a moment, and then looks back at him with gentle eyes. “I’m really sorry to ask, Mr. Shirogane, but I’ve blanked on her name. What was it again?”

Her name? He hasn’t said it in so long that he’s almost forgotten how to say it.

But he thinks of his hands in hers, her hands in his, and he replies:

“Allura.”


End file.
